


The Price of Assumption

by BastardBin



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Heavy Angst, Impalement, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Proofread, Permanent Death AU, Pining, graphic depiction of an accident, mental link - shared pain, temporary implied character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-21 02:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastardBin/pseuds/BastardBin
Summary: Grian has a problem. Not just any problem, either; it's not one he can solve with TNT, or by pestering his friends, or by flinging chickens everywhere. It also can't be solved with buying exorbitant amounts of rockets even he can't use, but he tries anyway.His problem is a crush. Three crushes, to be exact. And they're all already dating each other.He can't butt in. He can't put himself somewhere he doesn't belong. They're already happy, already perfect together; he can't take that away from them. He won't. He'll keep it from them to his last breath, just so they can stay happy together.Without him.But he never asked if that's what they wanted.
Relationships: grian/zedaph/impulse/tango, zedaph/impulse/tango
Comments: 110
Kudos: 490





	The Price of Assumption

**Author's Note:**

> so uh tldr someone over in discord posted a "bad things happen bingo" and it spawned an angsty idea that i really wanted to use and i didn't know which ship to torment so i spun a wheel and got grian/zit and then it got very out of hand so welp ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> i meant to have this be a short lil refresher fic before writing the next twol update but then it decided to be 13k words long and took three days but yknow what it was worth it this is fine

He doesn’t know when it started.

When the curiosity, the budding friendships, the adventure in getting to know new people, all turned into something else entirely. When late night goodbyes after long days of games turned hesitant, something in the air tugging at them to stay, tugging at him to _ask_ them to stay; when watching them walk away made his heart twist with unspoken words, his mind filled with admissions he could not speak. He doesn’t know when the sweet and beautiful laughter began to make his heart ache, when simply a voice spoken a bit too low would send invisible shivers down his spine, when hands brushing his in the exchange at their shops began to make his stomach do flips.

He doesn’t know when it started, but he knows where it has to end; and that is now, before they ever know. Before they ever find out how he feels, how his palms get sweaty when they look at him or how he loses his breath when they smile. He knows, realistically, that it’s always best to be honest; to _tell_ them, to let them make their own choice of what to do with the feelings he holds, whether that would be to reject or accept them. He knows nothing could ever come of pining, of keeping it to himself, of biting his tongue anytime the sparse moments of bravery would cross him and he’d almost tell them.

But he doesn’t _want_ that, or at least, he tried to convince himself he didn’t. No one can have everything, not all at once, and he knows it’s selfish to want what he does. No matter how much it tears his heart into little pieces to witness from the sidelines, seeing exactly what it is he wishes for and can’t have displayed in front of him, he has never wanted say a word. Because they’re happy, aren’t they? Their laughs are so much brighter when they’re together than with anyone else, the loving looks in their eyes unmatched and unmistakable. Even envious as he is, wishing so badly that he could be a part of that, he has never been able to deny how beautiful it is. They’re so happy, so perfect; fitting together like puzzle pieces created purely to be one, and together, they are whole.

 _Without_ him. They don’t need him, and he wouldn’t fit anyway. There is no space within an already completed puzzle for an extra piece, no matter how badly the fourth piece wishes he could fit. They are happy as they already are; and that’s enough.

So he says nothing, and he never will.

At least, that was the plan. But nothing ever really goes to plan, does it?

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It’s a well known fact that Grian, of all the Hermits, consumes rockets at an… ungodly rate. It’s a trait he’s known for, a common joke among the others, and it’s true. He joins in with them, laughing about his own addiction while buying yet another shulker of them from Tango, and he tries his best to brush off the breathless feeling that comes over him for the split second Tango’s hands are on his. Behind him, Mumbo is joking to Impulse that those rockets aren’t going to last him until even the end of the week, though he barely registers the words with the way Impulse’s ensuing laughter bounces around inside his head and makes him forget anything else. It takes him a moment to recover, to take a breath and shake his attention firmly back to the present; and when he does, Tango’s mildly concerned and curious stare is enough to make his heart rate skyrocket in an instant, the _care_ in those distinct eyes making something in his chest do flips.

It’s like going from the frying pan into the fire, anytime they’re around, and he’s lucky for his own ability to function that Zedaph isn’t around right now. On the other hand, he’s also disappointed, missing the all too familiar mop of wild blonde curls and the impossibly bright smile where it should be between the other two. He wouldn’t be able to coherently form words at all with the three of them at once, but Zedaph always just looks so _happy_ to see him, he could almost believe-- he shakes the thought off.

Secretly, as he hands his diamonds over to Tango and turns away to hide the rising color on his face at the shop owner’s beaming smile, he hopes Zedaph will be here tomorrow when he comes back to buy even more rockets anyway. It’s not actually as bad as they think it is, his addiction to rockets; these are enough to last him plenty of time, or at least more than the other Hermits give him credit for, and he has at least twenty spare full ones at home that he has yet to even touch. He has plenty, and he doesn’t need more.

But buying them means he gets to see _them_ , without anything seeming out of place. Without giving anyone any reason to question him. It causes jokes, raised eyebrows, and a dent in his wallet, but having an excuse to see them all if only for a moment makes it more than worth it. Realistically, he thinks it may be a bit silly, but to him it matters and he doesn’t care about how ridiculous it would seem to anyone else.

With his shulker in hand he takes off, not daring to look back at the other two again. He tells himself it’s enough, seeing even just the two out of three of them for just a few minutes today, and he clutches the box tighter to his chest as the wind whips through his hair. It _is_ enough. It _is._

...Isn’t it?

Grian forcibly shakes his head, flinging the thoughts from his mind and doing his best to put the stray feelings away where they can’t tug at him. He needs a project; he needs something to pour all of his attention into, to fill his head so full of thoughts of solving building problems that he can’t even begin to think about them. It doesn’t usually work, and he knows that, but he needs to at least try before he ends up sitting around in his base again daydreaming about Tango’s beautifully unique eyes, or the way Zedaph skips a little bit when he’s happy, or the muscles he knows from staring a bit too much are hidden away beneath Impulse’s favorite shirt--

With his mind elsewhere, he only narrowly misses crashing into a stray piece of bamboo near Concorp. His heart jumps into his throat at the scare, his flight path going completely haywire as he overcorrects and nearly flings himself directly into the nearby cliff wall. It’s only with his experience with flying that he manages to right himself, without falling into the river or losing his grip on his shulker.

Though, part of him almost wants to lose it. It would give him another excuse to go back, to see them again, and maybe Zedaph would be there. It’s almost tempting to… he eyes the water below for a moment before shaking his head again more harshly than before, and he flings himself into the sky with far more force than is necessary. Seeing them again will change nothing, it won’t soften the pull on his heart or the way he always just wants to get closer to them, and he _refuses_ to wedge himself in the middle of them.

He won’t do it. He won’t.

He needs a distraction.

Someway, somehow, he buries it all away. Flies higher and higher, until the buildings and the island below are nothing more than faint shapes behind wisps of clouds, and his fingers feel cold on the surface of the shulker. Above the clouds, there is nothing; only vast, pale blue sky, and the sun rising slowly to its peak, the serenity of the silent sky calming on his frayed emotions. He needs to pull himself together, to force his aching heart to be still when all they’ve done is look at him or speak to him, to force away the stutter that tries to take hold of his voice in their presence. It’s really just ridiculous at this point, and sooner or later, one of them is going to figure it out. He can’t let that happen.

Maybe he should go elsewhere for a few days. Maybe some distance would do him good, some time away from the shopping district or the ability to go buy rockets from Tango the moment he opens up shop every single morning. He doesn’t _like_ the idea, but maybe it would help. Maybe it would make him feel less attached, less torn between the three of them and his restraint. Maybe at the very least it would help him to control himself, or the way he responds to them in ways that makes his crushes far too obvious.

With a firm nod to himself, he dives, letting gravity pull him toward the ground with what feels like the same kind of tug on his heart for the three other Hermits. It gives him a feeling he isn’t entirely sure how to identify; something longing, something both warm and cold all at once. As the air rushes past his face, he can just barely spot the rocket shop, even upside down as it is, and the others still standing around in front of it. It makes the feeling stronger, torn between wanting to go back to them and wanting to go as far away as possible.

One of those things wins out, finally. As the ground is rushing toward him at a concerning speed, his mind conjuring up a horrifying crunch at its proximity, he can feel the faintest sense of fear spike within him at knowing how easily his daring flying habits could put an end to him. But then, just the same as always, he puts Tango’s rockets to good use to change his trajectory; and in a split instant, the ground is somewhere else entirely and he’s safe, all because of Tango’s expert craftsmanship. Really, he isn’t sure he’d even trust anyone else’s like he trusts Tango’s, which doesn't help abate his feelings. It sends him _away_ from the rocket shop, his eyes firmly set on the swirling purple portal in front of iTrade, all while he’s followed by what sounds like an impressed shout from one of the others. 

He forces himself not to identify who, though in the back of his mind he knows it was Impulse, and he refuses to acknowledge the way his mind tries to wander with the idea of the others watching him fly. He refuses to imagine them gazing up at him with the same feeling he always watches them with, when they’re fiddling with redstone or when Zedaph is doting on his sheep, or… He forces his mind, again, to focus on the portal around him, and nothing else. Nothing else. Not. Them. The speed at which his heart is beating is from the adrenaline, not the sound of Impulse cheering for him.

That’s what he tells himself.

He knows it isn’t true. But he keeps telling himself, shoving the feelings down, hoping they’ll fade and he can let them be happy as they are. As they should be.

He knows it’ll never work.

* * *

The trip is a long, long one, even with his wings and his habit of using at least three rockets per minute, and he hates it. It gives him time to think, far too much time to think, and his head is filled with nothing but a certain set of three hermits. He isn’t sure whether he should be frustrated, sad, or whatever the feeling that makes him want to go right back to them is called, but he’s all of them at once anyway. The long hall through the Nether is too empty, too quiet, with repeating patterns of designs in its build and absolutely nothing to attract his attention away from the people plaguing his mind.

It’s strange, really, the way he feels about them. As the tunnel drags on and on, he finds his mind drifting, filling with thoughts of them and the many times he’s seen their affection toward each other. The times Impulse will start to come around a corner with a greeting, only to be tackled by Tango and dragged into the rocket shop with nothing but a stream of giddy laughter to show either of them had ever been there. Or the way Zedaph will bounce up to both of them, skipping a step as he goes, and flinging himself at one of them knowing they won’t let him fall on the ground. And the way they take care of each other; when Zedaph is carrying too much to handle, and the other two will come up right beside him and take most of what he’s trying to move without a word, only sharing a glance between the three of them that says it all. Or when any of them have been at a project too long, and the others pull them away, telling anyone nearby that they’re the rest police and will be confining their exhausted partner to bed.

It’s, well… it’s a wonderful thing to witness, something that makes his heart go soft anytime he catches sight of it. Grian almost feels like it would be normal to be jealous, to feel a hurtful pang that he isn’t the one being treated like that, but he doesn’t. It makes him happy to see them, to see the little habits they’ve picked up with each other and to see them taking care of each other. He’s glad that they have each other, that he doesn’t have to worry about any of them, because the others are always somewhere nearby or will come to search for them if they’ve been gone too long. In a world like the one they live in, with hidden danger lurking around every corner and under the cover of night, it’s a relief to know that all three of his crushes are safe and cared for with each other.

It makes him think of the time Zedaph was caught out in the desert alone and in danger, though Grian never found out the details, and the only way he made it out alive was because of Tango going to find him. He hadn’t shown up when he should have, setting off alarm bells and causing his partners to search for him. That’s why he’s okay, why he wasn’t one of the occasional Hermits to be lost to the dangers of the world around them; the other two kept watch on him, and went to get him when he was in danger.

Grian is so glad they have each other, knowing that no matter what, they’ll be safe.

Deep down, he does wish he could be included in that, sure; he may be at least a bit envious, wishing he could be the one to step in and help Zedaph, or distract Tango from his shop, or sneak chickens into Impulse’s redstone. Or that he could let himself be swayed by their beaming smiles, their soft gazes and their low voices that haunt his dreams, but the fact is that he can’t. He has to remind himself, yet again, that they’re happy as they are. They don’t need him butting in on the perfect dynamic they already have, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong just because _he_ happens to like them all. They already worry about each other, especially after Zedaph’s desert stunt; they don’t need to worry about someone else too.

So much for getting them out of his head. The portal looms up before him, finally, and he shoves himself into it with a bit of a huff, already tired of the way his mind refuses to let him accept what he can’t have. He won’t give in; it’s none of his business, what they have, and he won’t put himself where he doesn’t belong.

As the village of Hermitville phases into reality around him, he reminds himself again and again, firmly telling himself within his own head that he will not let them know. They don’t need to know, they don’t need to worry about him pining after them or, worse, fearing he’ll try to break them apart. No, it’s better that they have no idea, that he doesn’t cause any problems for them.

The tall buildings bring fond memories, the houses that start off normal and get progressively more ridiculous as they tower into the sky far above, and Grian can’t hold back a wistful sigh looking up at them. It brings to mind that he doesn’t really know where he’s going, what he’s trying to do; all he knows is that he needs a distraction, to force his mind to let the three Hermits be. Something like the build battle, again, would be just the thing, but there’s nothing like it happening.

For a moment, he stares out to the horizon, and the faint silhouettes of the towers at Area 77. That was fun, too, though the memory of Impulse in a vest and flower crown slams into him like a falling building and wrenches him right back into that same problem he’s been struggling to deal with for who knows how long. Worse still, trying to push it from his mind only replaces it with Tango, dressed up like False and his voice cracking as he tried to mimic her, and the feeling of criminal camaraderie as they robbed the stock exchange together. He shoves that one away too.

It’s replaced by Zedaph, dressed in a ridiculously over the top grim reaper outfit and his voice spoken as low as he could possibly make it go, to the point it was weak and a bit raspy, and Grian flings himself into the air yet again. He _has_ to find a project, he has to distract himself or disconnect before he’s so in over his head he can’t get out.

He knows he already is, but he ignores that.

It doesn’t matter what it is, he just has to do something. Flying out of the village greets him with the sight of the games district, the little stands set up by himself or Stress or Concorp, or the long lava minigame Xisuma had done. And then, at the far end, is his very own mansion; abandoned without inspiration, left unfinished for the elements to chip away at it. From far away it doesn’t look too bad, but as he gets closer, he can see it isn’t in the best condition.

Without having gotten around to windows, or weather proofing the wood, he can already see a concerning amount of structural damage. The wood of the windowsills looks pockmarked and weak, the beams trying to sag in some places, and he doesn’t doubt that the floor may give way under him if he isn’t careful.

And it’s _perfect._

He still doesn’t feel all that interested in finishing it, but it’s something to do. With the way his mind and heart seem to have betrayed him and any of his attempts at holding actual, empathetic logic, it’s the best he can ask for. He knows he won’t be able to think of something new that doesn’t have anything to do with a certain trio no matter how hard he tries. It’s with that in mind that he nods firmly to himself, lighting down onto the weakened porch as gently as he can.

It feels like it sags under his weight, but the wood holds, creaking in protest only a little as he sets his shulker of rockets onto it beside him. He’s careful as he steps through the door, watching his step and keeping a close eye on the floor. It looks worse on the inside than even he had expected, the signs of decay in the wood more than a little obvious, and technically he supposes the entire thing should probably be scrapped and started over. The thing’s probably a hazard just sitting here like this, and it definitely isn’t safe or efficient to try and fix it.

But his options are either trying to put back together a crumbling mansion, or go back to his endless thoughts about impossible things that tug at his heart, and one of those things is far less daunting than the other.

He chooses the mansion.

In all honesty, Grian isn’t entirely sure how he set this thing up. It was ages ago now that he built it to where it is, and the mental blueprints are long since lost. He doesn’t know which walls are load bearing or not, and he thinks there may be a hole under the floor somewhere a basement might’ve been intended, though he isn’t entirely sure. It’s genuinely a mess, something he no doubt was sure he’d remember and didn’t bother taking notes even though he knows he never remembers those things. He still won’t change, either; even with the frustration of looking up at it, no idea of where to start or what’s safe to touch, he knows he still won’t make any notes the next time he builds something.

Impulse would probably chastise him in the friendliest way possible, handing him a paper and telling him he should make notes, looking at him with soft and gently amused concern--

Y’know what, who cares about the blueprints. What trouble could a few load bearing walls cause, anyway? It’s his mansion, he knows how to deal with it, he can fix it. He’ll fix it and it’ll be the best mansion anyone’s ever seen, and he can show it off and definitely not be thinking about anyone else in particular the entire way through. Not at all.

… Maybe they’ll like it. Impulse liked his builds in the commune, he’s heard passing compliments from the others, maybe they’ll… Shaking his head firmly enough to make himself dizzy, Grian stubbornly puts that train of thought out of mind as harshly as he can and walks over to the nearest wall with a vengeance. He will fix up the mansion, and he will distract himself, and he won’t be doing it to impress anyone because there’s no one he has a crush on. And they definitely aren’t plural.

Axe in hand, the weak and brittle wood is easy to cut through, giving way with little effort. It’s almost scary just how weak it is, especially considering if any of the supports are in the same state, but at the moment he can’t really be bothered to worry about it. He’s forcing himself to focus on nothing except the sound of the wood cracking under his efforts, the sound echoing almost eerily around the musty hallway and making it just that much clearer how _alone_ he is. It brings his mind right back to his thoughts earlier, of the other three taking care of each other, and he can’t help the next hit being stronger than it should be as he tries to wrench the thought right back out of his mind again.

The diamond blade cuts too easily, tearing its way through more of the wall than intended and embedding itself firmly in one of the barely holding supports, causing a loud groaning creak from the ceiling above. There are some snapping sounds, almost a grinding, and he swears he can almost _see_ it as the part of the wall that’s been cut apart begins to slide under the weight of the roof. It sinks in all at once that he needs to move, panic and adrenaline surging through his veins as he whirls around for the door.

But with a deafening crack, everything goes dark.

They take care of each other. They keep each other safe.

He isn’t so lucky.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Something feels off.

Tango can’t quite place it, can’t quite put his finger on what’s wrong, but he can’t shake the feeling off no matter how much he tries. But looking around, checking everything he can think of, tells him nothing about what’s gotten under his skin. He woke up this morning feeling stressed for no apparent reason, almost on edge enough to believe a creeper or something had made its way into his base while he was sleeping. But his base was safe, there wasn’t a single thing out of place and not a single uninvited guest to be seen.

It didn’t go away once he’d left, either. Arriving at his shop with the sun rising overhead and casting warmth over the shopping district, he still couldn’t get over the faint chill that seemed to be following him everywhere. And sure, at first he thought it could just be him; that he’s just having an off day, that it’ll go away as the hours pass. That he’s just paranoid, on edge, that maybe he just had a bad dream.

But then Impulse and Zedaph arrived to join him, and they can feel it too.

They went about their daily chores like normal, but now with the rocket shop restocked and the three of them sitting around in the grass, they just can’t shake it. Zedaph is fidgeting with his hands, tugging at the poor blades of grass under his legs and betraying how nervous he feels, while Impulse stares up at the tree swaying over them with knitted brows and a distant look. “Something, something _has_ to be wrong.” Zedaph mumbles, his eyes glassy with fear when he meets Tango’s gaze.

“But there’s nothing, not that I can find.” Impulse adds, looking down from the tree and back at the two of them, his expression an equal mix of concern and confusion. “The district is safe, there was nothing in any of our bases, Mumbo isn’t running any of his farms… Trust me, I checked that first.”

Tango snorts at the slight joke, though he finds himself looking around nervously again for what must be the hundredth time. He can see some of the other Hermits going about their daily restock routine, too; Cub and Scar are going around their ridiculous amount of shops with a ridiculous amount of shulkers in tow, and he can see False disappear inside of her ink shop further away. They don’t seem to be bothered in the same way, their expressions carefree and relaxed as they go about their business, leaving only the three in front of the rocket shop to feel this strange cloying fear hanging over their heads.

“We’re all right here, so it’s not like that time you were hurt, Zed.” Impulse is saying, Zedaph agreeing with a quiet hum, while Tango keeps glancing around. There’s something, there’s _something_ , he can _feel_ it. Like there’s a clue right here, something so obvious he’s missing it completely, and he needs to figure out what it is. “This feels like that did, when Tango disappeared to find you before I even had my shoes on.”

Zedaph’s voice is small and quiet, afraid at the implications of what that might mean. “If that felt like this, then… then what, _who--”_ Tango doesn’t hear the rest, all sound seeming to fall away as his eyes finally zero in on the red shulker set aside just within his shop. The same kind of red shulker he puts there every day, filled with enough rockets to last a month, the same one that gets picked up every single day on the hour like clockwork. The one that gets handed off to someone with a splash of red on their cheeks as bright as the box, the one that leaves in a scattering of rocket smoke after a barely coherent farewell.

He looks up. The sun is directly above them, far higher than it should be when he arrives to get his box. Every single day.

Except today.

“We need to go,” He scrambles to his feet, dread coursing through him like ice. It startles the other two, both turning to look at him with newfound worry at the urgency in his voice, though he barely notices their reactions as he scans the district around them with rekindled fear. “We need to, we-- where the hell could he be?”

“Who?” Impulse tries to question him, but Tango isn’t listening. The feeling is getting stronger and stronger now that he’s realized, a phantom ache of some kind burning in his chest in an all too familiar way. It’s like the burning in his legs when Zedaph had fallen in that cave under the desert, but this, this is far too close to vital things for his liking, and he’s terrified. He runs through a list of locations in his mind in near hysterics, trying to remember any possible location to search in. Where could he be? He isn’t in the shopping district, the first place to check would of course be his base… there’s also Sahara, and maybe Mumbo’s farms-- wait, no, Impulse said he checked those already, he would’ve seen him if he as there, and… “Tango!”

With a sudden, rattling breath that makes him realize he hadn’t been breathing, Tango is wrenched back to the present by Impulse’s hands on his shoulders. He’s staring intently at the panicking redstoner’s face, his eyes both warm and caring while also managing to portray the urgency in them.

“Tango. Breathe. What is it? What did you figure out?” His voice is deep and soothing, worried but strong. Unwavering and grounding, and it’s accompanied by a gentle grip taking hold of his hand that he doesn’t need to look to know is Zedaph trying to help. The _wrong, painful_ feeling courses in his chest like the throb of a wound, but he pushes it down, taking another deep and stuttering breath. It makes him feel less lightheaded, though he hadn’t even realized until this exact moment that he’d been swaying on his feet, the world spinning around him.

“It’s,” He tries, voice cracking weakly, leaving him to take another breath and clear his throat before trying again. “It’s Grian.”

He can see as Impulse’s eyes trail over his shoulder, distant for a moment before focusing on the shulker inside the shop, and he can see the instant the same realization dawns on Impulse as it had on him. In only a split second, the tallest of the three lets go of one of Tango’s shoulders to rest it on Zedaph’s instead, pulling them into a huddle with his intense gaze flicking between them.

“He’s in danger and we have to find him.” He says, firmly. He doesn’t bring up the other details, the what ifs or the question of why they can feel his pain, or the implication of what it may mean combined with previous talks about the mischievous builder. There’s only firm resolution in his voice, a determined set to his jaw. “We split up and search every place he frequents, and if he’s not any of those places, then we scour the wilderness. Tell anyone else you see on the way, we can’t risk missing him.”

His calm, steadfast demeanor helps keep the fear at bay, the rising anxiety, and Tango is grateful for it. Zedaph’s hand is shaking where it grips his, but it relaxes some when he gently squeezes it. A glance at their shorter partner shows him the blonde looking just as determined as Impulse, despite the fearful tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Zedaph isn’t usually much for flying, not remotely like Grian or the others are, and he’s sure he’s never used as many rockets as he is now. Hurtling down the Nether tunnel at these speeds is daunting, especially with how he keeps turning his head to look at the offshoot tunnels just in the odd chance Grian may be down one of them. There’s no such luck, though, and he’s forced to continue on with the mounting worry and fear growing stronger with each passing mile.

The lingering, phantom pain in his chest is terrifying. He knows the others have felt it before, with him; but he never has. He was the one hurt last time, the one injured and afraid in the darkness, _knowing_ his end was coming for him and no one would ever know what happened to him. And it’s only because of this feeling that he’s still alive, that Tango was able to find him in time; but he didn’t know about that at the time. He didn’t know the others were coming for him, didn’t know they had any idea he was in fatal danger. All he knew was that he was alone in the wilderness, with nothing to tell anyone of the undead noises he could hear coming for him while he was unable to run away.

And that’s what Grian is experiencing, now, or at least similar to it. Grian doesn’t know they’re looking for him, doesn’t know they know he’s injured. Zedaph knows how he feels, how afraid and resigned to his fate he must be, how he must be going back over regretting the actions that led him to whatever state he’s in. It’s not an experience he would wish on anyone, and it makes his heart ache to think of Grian dealing with it in particular.

It makes him wish they’d _said_ something; about all of this, about what they’d never told him. About what they’d been too afraid to say, too worried of the repercussions, not knowing how he would react; but now, with the distinct feeling of Grian’s pain in his own chest, he thinks he knows what the reaction may have been. He doesn’t know for sure, of course, but it’s a possibility, and it makes the even higher possibility of _losing_ Grian entirely all the more painful. All the what-ifs and the hesitations swirl around in his head, all seeming so silly now with the prospect of never seeing the builder again.

But there’s nothing to be said for it now. All they can do is look for him, and hope they can find him before it’s too late. Already, Zedaph can feel the cold twinges along with the pain, almost like the pain is fading and being replaced by numb chills, and he doesn’t like it at all. He was threatened more by the danger lurking in the darkness than he was by physical injury, in pain but not actively dying when Tango came for him the same way; but he thinks this might be what dying feels like, no matter how muted it may be on his end.

He really hopes they find him soon.

Doubling down on his rocket usage, he speeds down the halls faster than he ever has, keeping vigilant watch for any sign of a familiar red sweater. The same one he always looks forward to seeing zoom through the sky above, or approach every morning at Tango’s shop, or the rare occasions he’s seen him elsewhere. The little barter battle they had over their rivaling quartz shops, Grian’s huffed frustration when he finally put up a sign banning Zedaph from his cart, or the way he’d stuck his tongue out at him in childish victory and how it had made Zedaph reconsider everything he felt about the newest Hermit.

Or the conversation it had sparked, back at home at the dinner table with the other two. Surprise faded to quiet agreement, Tango shrugging and nodding with little hesitation and seconding Zedaph’s thoughts. But their dynamic is, and always has been, unique. Who’s to say Grian would want anything to do with it? That was Impulse’s voice of reason, though he too agreed with their newfound realizations.

Now, though, with the builder’s life fading fast in a way he can physically _feel?_ Zedaph doesn’t think their hesitance, their worry, was all that important after all.

Finally, _finally,_ the portal comes into view and he flings himself into it still flying in his desperation to make good time. There’s no guarantee he’ll even find Grian, maybe Tango already found him in his base or Impulse found him at Sahara, but he doesn’t know that for sure. He has to keep going, has to check everywhere he can, and he stumbles out of the portal before his body has even fully formed on the other side. It’s jarring and dizzying, and it almost reminds him of the warm, fuzzy feeling that swept over him the first time he saw Grian petting and talking sweetly to one of his sheep; only for the builder to bolt and vanish as soon as he realized he’d been spotted, leaving behind what turned out to be an ad for Sahara graffitied onto the sheep he’d been doting on.

The pain grows weaker, and with it, his urgency skyrockets.

He goes with it, using the rockets to speed into the air and away from the portal tower of the village. There’s a lot to see around here, a lot to check, endless places Grian could be or could not be; and Zedaph has to forcibly wrench his mind back into a place of at least slightly calm consideration, taking a moment to breathe and _think_ about where the builder could realistically be. Everything in him just wants to panic, to run in circles screaming until someone else fixes it, but that will do the exact opposite of helping Grian.

The pain in his chest has to be from something. He doesn’t know if it’s from a mob, or some kind of accident, or maybe from something environmental; but it’s a clue. It’s a throbbing, burning pain, and hasn’t moved in the entire time he’s had it. That has to mean he hasn’t tried to move, hasn’t jostled the wound, hasn’t tried to escape from whatever happened to him, and… he may very well still be exactly where it happened, and not somewhere safe. At just a glance, the village seems normal, with nothing out of place or anything to be concerned about, leaving Zedaph to dash off toward the games district with his rockets.

He’s looking, searching for anything out of place, any clues, and it seems like there is none. His gaze trails over the skyline of the games, all of the familiar things he’s come to expect to see, all the way up the peninsula to the left. For a moment he’s caught on Grian’s digging game, feeling a slight pang at the sight of it while knowing its owner is hurt and missing, but it’s nothing compared to the way his blood runs cold when he looks past it.

Grian’s mansion, the one he’d seemed to have gotten bored of… part of the roof had fallen in, one of the outer walls leaning inward in the way a sound building never should, and the front door is unlocked, open and swinging on its hinges in the wind. If there had been ground under Zedaph, it would have felt like it dropped away, newfound panic pressing in on him on all sides. All of the details line up far too well; the way Grian disappeared, the undisturbed pain, the caved in building, it all points to the same answer.

He doesn’t care that the porch sags under his feet as he lands, or the way the loose door eerily slams shut behind him as he runs through it. All he cares about is the unmoving, familiar red form on the ground inside, only barely visible from underneath the fallen section of roof pinning him in place. It’s no wonder he didn’t move, he _can’t,_ not with that much material on top of him.

But he shoves all the details from his mind, dashing forward and skidding to a halt on his knees beside the seemingly unconscious Hermit. Grian isn’t moving, terrifyingly still, and combined with the continually fading pain in Zedaph’s own chest he already fears the worst.

“Grian..?” He tries, his voice coming out as nothing more than a pitiful croak. Grian doesn’t react, and Zedaph is almost afraid to touch him; but when he puts his hand on the downed builder’s barely exposed neck, he’s able to stutter out a breath of relief at the faint pulse he finds there.

He’s out, but he has a chance. If Zedaph can just get him unpinned-- he finds himself looking up, staring at the rafters and crossbeams all fallen in a massive, tangled heap. They’re on top of the piece of ceiling holding Grian in place, all caught together in a mess that doesn’t look like it’s going to budge at all with the way it’s wedged. It makes his chest burn with frustrated helplessness, already feeling the tears trying to fall just from the pure impossibility of the task in front of him, not to mention the awful state he’s just found poor Grian in.

Shaking the tears away and stamping down the growing hopeless feeling, Zedaph feels along the snapped boards, tugging and testing which ones are solid and part of the mass or not. It seems to be most of them, but he’s able to find a solid one jutting far enough out that he can wedge himself beneath it and try to push it away from the ground. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, and he doesn’t consider how he’s going to get Grian out from under the pile when the builder is unconscious even if he can lift it high enough, but the outcome he gets is not the one he expects.

Pushing up on the boards jostles the mass some, just the slightest bit; just enough to make his chest sear in agony, right in tune with Grian’s sudden pained cries, cutting through the air just as painfully as the wrenching wound.

It’s then that he sees the blood. The dark, partially dried pool underneath Grian, hidden out of his sight previously by the wreckage. It coats the floor beneath him with a faint, gruesome sheen, and has soaked into his sweater and dried to a partially sticky state in a way that he’s sure the fibers would stick to the floor if he tried to move. The builder is gasping now, his breaths shallow, and Zedaph can feel why. Each breath brings forth another wave of pain, the movement disturbing his injury, and now that he’s seen the blood Zedaph can’t stop himself from crouching lower and looking fully beneath the mass of shattered wood.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Even from this limited angle, with so much in the way and burying him, he can still make out the source of their linked pain. Grian, Grian has a-- Zedaph has to turn away after only a few seconds of letting it sink in what he was looking at, his stomach wrenching. With loose, torn red sweater threads caught on the ragged edges of the wood, there’s nothing else to hide the support stud that has embedded itself seemingly right through the builder’s chest. It’s splattered with blood, and there’s not an inch of skin to be seen through the thick layer of red, partially dried liquid.

“Ngh,” Grian’s voice, weak as it is, pierces the silence filled otherwise with nothing but Zedaph’s increasingly panicked breathing and the creaking of wood. It reminds him, all over again, that Grian _is_ still alive; and it’s equally relieving and horrifying at once. He’s alive, he could still make it, he could still be saved even from this state and be able to recover. That’s what the positive side of Zedaph’s mind is saying, hoping for the best and praying someone else will stumble across them soon to help. But the other part of his mind can’t help but think; how long has he been here?

The blood is nearly dry, stiff in his sweater and nothing more than a dark stain in the floorboards. There’s not a _lot_ of it, the wound blocked as it is by the beam, but there’s enough that it should have taken quite some time to dry to this state. Grian himself, too, looks pale and sweaty, his hands faintly trembling where they rest on the floor, and Zedaph is pretty sure it must be some kind of shock.

He has a sinking feeling about this, the tears burning cold trails down his cheeks as they escape at the gravity of just what’s happened here. They can’t save him from this, can they? They can’t-- _he_ can’t especially, not on his own. Impulse and Tango are the strong ones, he’s the one that struggles to pull a stubborn sheep through a gate, he can’t do _this_. He can’t lift the weight, he can’t unpin the other Hermit from his trap, and even if he could, even if the others find their way here…

What about that wound? What about removing that beam, opening the floodgates and finishing him off just like that?

Is there _anything_ they can do?

The hopelessness compounds together with the regret, the weight of it all slamming into Zedaph all at once. His heart twists, wrenches into jagged knots tied with thorns, leaving him breathless and cold as the tears flow to the red stained floor.

“.. Ze..” He almost doesn’t catch the faint, _so very faint,_ voice over his own sobs, but it reaches him like a faint breeze and he stills. At first he’s sure he imagined it, staring down at the limp form of his cr-- _friend._ But then there it is, ever so faintly louder than before, through breathless and still so very weak. _“Zed.”_

“Grian? I’m right here, I--” Zedaph wiggles himself free as gently as he can, escaping the mass of boards and scrambling to the other side where Grian’s head is turned from its place on the ground. He’s met with an unfocused, glassy gaze, unable to focus on him through the impossible amounts of trauma and pain. “I, I, Grian..”

What can he say? What _should_ he say? He can’t ask if he’s alright, he can’t tell him he’ll be okay, he can’t-- he can’t _do_ anything, he can’t help, he can’t fix it.

“Zedaph,” Grian’s voice isn’t stronger, it _can’t_ be stronger with a jagged bit of wood jutting through his chest, but the builder seems to be putting everything he possibly can into speaking. Zedaph almost feels like he should stop him, tell him to save his energy, because that’s what you’re supposed to do? Right? So that they can be saved, when they do get help? But he’s thinking more and more that isn’t going to happen. He can’t leave, but he’s alone, and he can’t move him, and the others are nowhere to be seen, and… “The-- somethi-- need, tell you.”

Grian’s voice is cutting out, his air giving up on him and his words far too weak with how little air he’s able to take in from both the pain and the weight pressing down on him, but Zedaph can understand for the most part. It only makes the tears increase tenfold, the blonde _knowing_ he’s a sobbing, uncontrollable mess, but he shuffles closer and rests his head on Grian’s as gently as he can anyway.

He tells himself it’s so he can hear him better, and not for any other reason.

  
  
  


And he knows it’s a lie.

  
  
  


“Zed,” Grian’s eyes manage to catch his for a moment, though he feels like he’s being looked _through_ with how distant they are. The world around them seems to hang still, even his own ragged breathes seeming to pause without a need for them. There’s something here, something heavy and important; and it’s right there, in Grian’s distant gaze. “I wish.. I could h-- tell,”

“Grian?” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s important, and he knows it, and he _can’t catch it._ He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he doesn’t know what it _means._

The builder’s stare seems to focus some, forcibly, like Grian is putting everything he has into being coherent, and it makes the sharp twisting pain in his heart dig its claws ever deeper. “You three. You-- I wish..” He manages to make out, but Grian is fading fast, his focus going even cloudier than before and his voice trailing so impossibly breathless and quiet. His struggle has caught up to him; his attempt to make himself heard, to say his words and find the strength to have known whatever it is he finds so important.

“Grian? Grian, I don’t know what you’re--” Grian’s mouth opens again, and Zedaph’s snaps shut, listening with everything he has.

“I wish I cou-- ve known was like. To be able,” His eyes are sliding shut, his voice disappearing, the mirrored pain fading away to nothing. “To have.. loved y…”

He falls silent, limp, but he’s said all he needed. It _clicks._

And Zedaph _breaks._

Because, after all, they could have told him. They could have; and now, he knows he would've felt the same. But they _didn't._

And now he won't ever know they loved him, too.

* * *

Sahara was empty. Not a soul to be found within its concrete walls, not anywhere on its grounds or even within the office building and meeting room Impulse was sure he wasn’t even supposed to be inside of. He looked everywhere, even carefully ducking inside of the complex redstone and peering down every row just in case, hoping beyond hope that Grian would be inside and they wouldn’t have to search far.

But he wasn’t that lucky, the entire place completely empty and without the builder anywhere to be seen. He hoped Tango had had better luck in Grian’s base, but returning to the shopping district and seeing his partner’s approaching form with a still fearful and disappointed expression told him he had fared no better.

“Nothing?” Impulse asks anyway once he’s close enough, knowing what answer he’ll get and needing to hear it anyway. The pain in his chest scares him, _terrifies_ him. It’s all too familiar and yet so much worse, and there’s a distant thought nagging at the back of his head, tugging at his emotions with little claws.

If anything happens, if anything goes wrong… could he be at fault? There’s no way he could have stopped whatever’s happened, accidents and monster attacks are out of anyone’s control, but the fearful tears in Zedaph’s eyes are still haunting him. Backed now with the terrified and lost look on Tango’s face, as if he’s moments away from panicking all over again without knowing what to do. Impulse was the one that pointed out Grian may not be comfortable with all of them having feelings for him; so if anything goes wrong, if they can’t find him-- will it be Impulse’s fault that the other two never got to tell him?

“Nothing,” Tango confirms, looking back at the high tower of glass and concrete helplessly. It’s a beautiful structure, like everything else Grian makes, but right now all it does is make the cold feeling of fearful worry and regret jab deeper for both of them. Impulse doesn’t need to ask to know Tango would have scoured every inch of it, just like he did with Sahara, though he’s tempted to anyway just out of worry and a need to know that every possible place has been turned upside down in their search. “Where else can we look?”

“Zed should be in Hermitville by now, there’s a lot to cover there too but we should probably check the shops and everywhere else here first.” More than anything, Impulse is thinking out loud; but he knows hearing his thoughts and how he comes to a conclusion will help keep Tango from overthinking and panicking. As he’s speaking, the blonde is watching him closely, hanging on his words. “Maybe even some of the others’ bases, and the war bases, and anywhere on the island he might visit a lot. I didn’t see him at Mumbo’s farms, so we shouldn’t need to check--”

He’s cut off by a searing, stinging pain, the dull phantom ache in his chest roaring into agony so suddenly it causes him to buckle in on himself with a strained wheeze. It _burns,_ like scraping jagged edges over raw skin or pulling something sharp and pointed out of an open wound, and for a split second he’s convinced he’s been speared by an arrow while he wasn’t looking. It leaves him panting and blinking away pained tears, and through it, he can see Tango has crumpled to his knees on the ground, grasping the same spot on his own chest.

The pain fades to a pulsing throb, whatever was aggravating the injury seeming to have stopped, and it’s enough that Impulse is able to breathe again. He reaches out, resting a hand on Tango’s shoulder and giving him a firm and reassuring squeeze when he feels the other Hermit trembling. “That was him, wasn’t it?” Tango rasps, his voice weak.

“He tried to move.” Impulse nods, though Tango hasn’t looked up from the ground yet. “I… I don’t think he _can_ move.”

Now Tango does look up, meeting his gaze. His red eyes are watery, somehow equally lost and firm at once. “It feels like he’s pinned. Like a, like a rockslide, or a cave in, or…” He trails off, brows knitting together as he sweeps his gaze over the district around them for what must be the hundredth time, looking for answers the district can’t give him.

“That was new, though. He hasn’t tried to move before. Something must have changed.”

For a moment, they lapse into silence; Tango staring out over the district, and Impulse paying close attention to the throbbing pain. It’s far, far less muted than it was, and he finds himself wondering if Grian might not have been awake before now. Little twinges pulse out from the source area, just tiny movements that tug on the wound ever so slightly, and he can’t decide if it’s just from breathing or if the missing Hermit is fidgeting wherever he’s trapped.

The scary part, though, is that it’s getting weaker. The pain is bad, but he thinks the way it’s fading is worse, especially if the dull feeling from before was Grian being passed out; doesn’t that mean, then, that if it disappears completely..?

“I think Zed found him.”

Impulse’s head shoots up to stare at Tango, the blonde’s words drawing him out of his thoughts in an instant. He’s staring into the district, red eyes narrowed in thought, and when Impulse follows his gaze he’s met with the portal in front of iTrade. “How’s that?” Impulse asks, turning back, and it’s somehow relieving with the way Tango turns to him with such certainty in his face.

“Zed went to Hermitville, right? And we haven’t found Grian here, but Zed should be there now, and if Grian just woke up… then that means he found him. Right?”

Tango has a point, one that leaves Impulse nodding even before he’s finished speaking. He doesn’t need to give any further agreement, or let Tango explain what else he’s thinking; without another word, Tango takes his hand and dashes for the portal, Impulse going right along with him. With the pain in their chests, he’s both glad and horrified at the prospect that Zedaph was the one to find Grian; he hopes beyond hope that Grian actually _was_ found, that they aren’t chasing nothing and following Zedaph all that way only to find he hasn’t found him either. He hopes Zedaph is there with him, he hopes neither of them are alone; but on the other hand, he knows Zedaph. He _knows_ their shortest partner doesn’t handle pressure well, he doesn’t handle serious situations well, he can’t deal with seeing the people he cares about hurt, and Impulse can only hope he’s holding it together if he found Grian.

And he can only hope the injury isn’t as bad as it feels.

The Nether tunnel passes in a blur, both of them flying down it so quickly they barely see anything but smudged colors and each other. It’s dangerous, and normally he’d tell Tango to slow down especially as he keeps pulling ahead more and more, but the feeling of urgency that comes with the quickly fading pain wins. They can’t risk being careful and taking their time, especially without knowing what they’re going to find when they get there. Impulse knows already, if Grian really is pinned, there isn’t a damn thing Zedaph will be able to do about it on his own. It’s that thought that makes him speed up, catching up to Tango’s breakneck pace yet again.

In what feels like no time at all and forever all at once, they reach the portal, flinging themselves through it and fidgeting in place while they impatiently wait for the shift between dimensions. Tango jumps out into the overworld sky before Impulse, not bothering to wait for the vertigo to fade before he’s disappeared, and Impulse can only follow after him as far as stumbling onto the portal tower before he has to stop. The blonde zooms around the village, skimming sight of the entire thing, while Impulse waits for the ground to feel solid. He turns back toward everything else scattered outside of the village, trying to focus on the structures outside of the wall to ground himself. In the distance, he can still see the shapes of the towers within Area 77, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest remembering everything about those shenanigans. 

Grian was so excited, jumping headfirst into the dynamic with such enthusiasm, Impulse couldn’t help but try to match it without even realizing. He was always running around, putting more flowers everywhere and growing so many, he’s still not sure where the builder managed to get them all or grow them seemingly overnight. And he was so _happy,_ beaming at Impulse whenever he came to dump more flowers on him; and not to mention the time machine situation where Grian called him handsome and Impulse couldn’t stop hearing it echo around in his head for weeks.

… it’s been a long time since all of that. Grian doesn’t act like that anymore; he only runs away, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with the three of them, and Impulse hopes he didn’t figure it out. He’s so torn, wanting to confess to the builder how they all feel about him and yet being so afraid of driving him away, and he’d feel awful if Grian found out and that’s why he’s been so distant.

Especially now, with the pain fading away into nothing.

“Impulse, look. I don’t like the look of that.”

Tango’s voice calls from somewhere above in the sky, jarring Impulse out of his reverie, and he takes off without any more hesitation. It only takes a moment to find Tango, his bright red form standing out stark against the blue sky, and he points off toward the games district when Impulse reaches him. Following where he’s pointing causes a pit of dread to drop in Impulse’s stomach, his blood turning to ice as it sinks in that he’s looking at Grian’s partially collapsed mansion.

With too many rockets and the wind roaring in their ears, Impulse leads the way without looking to see if Tango is behind him, his focus dead set on that mansion. The pain is gone now, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of fear from looking at this disaster with the knowledge of the pain having felt like being crushed. It only gets worse and worse as he gets closer, terror gripping him until he practically crashes into the ground to run inside.

He’s only made it to the door when he hears it; Zedaph’s familiar voice, torn ragged by broken sobs and heart wrenching wails, and it feels like the floor falls out from under him as he makes it inside. Tango bumps right into him at his sudden stop, but he barely feels it, staring at the scene in front of them.

Zedaph is curled over an unmoving, human shape just barely visible from underneath the massive pile of wreckage on top of him. The blonde’s shoulders are shaking, his cries and hiccups the only sound, and it’s the worst thing Impulse has ever heard. Even his crying when he was injured, when Xisuma was setting the breaks in his legs, was _nothing_ compared to the absolutely tormented howls escaping him now.

He feels numb as he steps closer, limbs moving on autopilot until he reaches the two of them. Zedaph doesn’t react until he kneels on the floor with him, setting a hand gently on his shoulder, and then he goes _far_ too still.

“Zedaph?” Tango asks over his shoulder, his voice wavering just before cracking. Impulse is afraid to look past Zedaph, to see what shape Grian is really in, to see whether there’s anything they can do or if he’s only going to see that face he’s so used to smiling and laughing instead in an unmoving, cold state. He has no choice when Zedaph lifts his head, sitting up and looking at the two of them with dull, bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks; and in the process, revealing the injured Hermit he’d been leaning over.

Grian’s face is pale, his expression somewhere between neutral, pained and desperate; and there’s blood under him, blood on his hands and streaked on his face, dried and matted into his sweater. His eyes are closed, though Impulse can’t convince himself he’s just asleep.

“He-- he,” Zedaph’s speaking voice is so broken, so raspy and cracked from his sobbing, that it only continues to pile the pain on top of everything else. They were too late, and Zedaph wasn’t; Zedaph watched him die, knowing he’d never gotten to tell Grian how he felt, and it was all Impulse’s fault. “He liked us, too. He thought, he thought we wouldn’t--”

He breaks down in sobs all over again, his eyes scrunching up as they fill and overflow with yet more tears just before he buries his face into Impulse’s chest. It’s so _wrong_ , the cold feeling of dread and _guilt_ getting worse and worse as Zedaph sobs into his chest and his eyes are locked onto Grian’s pale, unmoving form. Behind him, he’s vaguely aware of Tango wrapping his arms around him, probably knowing exactly where his thoughts are; but it only makes the compounding guilt, regret and overarching _pain_ of both losing Grian, seeing Zedaph like this, and knowing everything could have been so much different that much worse.

Was this his fault? He feels like it is.

And there’s nothing he can do about it now.

  
  
  
  


At least, that’s what he thinks; until he sees Grian’s hand twitch.

* * *

It’s slow, becoming aware of himself again. He has no thoughts, no words in his head and no feelings, no memories. There is but neutral, empty darkness; but as time crawls by, things start seeping into his awareness. The pain is the first thing to trickle back in, throbbing gently with a mild kind of ache that doesn’t quite reach all the way through his chest. It’s so much less than before, it barely feels like anything, but it’s more than the nothing of only moments ago and it feels like so much.

The next thing is a _want._ He wants to move, to lessen the pain, but he hasn’t quite come back enough yet. He hasn’t figured out how. But things are coming back faster, the sensation of his body resting on something soft, something warm, and maybe he doesn’t need to move after all. The pain is less than the comfort, and he doesn’t mind it so much.

It’s dark, too, but it’s not the same kind of darkness as before, when everything was fading away. When it was cold, and his chest was searing, the weight pressing down on him, and-- the sobs. A familiar voice, so close, and yet he was unable to reach it. Too weak to speak, to see, his body failing him and leaving him unable to do anything but drift further into that darkness as the voice grew ever more distant. This darkness is different; as if there’s light just behind it, just within reach if he only knew how to find it.

And then… then he becomes aware of the hold around him. The weight pressed firmly up against the side of his body, so warm and secure, and he wants to move even less now, feeling soft curls nuzzled up under his jaw. There’s warm, steady breaths puffing against his throat, rhythmic and soothing, and he can’t help the contented sigh that escapes him. His hands are warm; and it’s only after he sighs and feels the pressure of grips tightening around both of them that he realizes they’re being held.

“Grian?”

It’s the first sound he’s picked up on, other than the quiet breathing right by his head, and it’s almost strange to him after the silence. He can’t quite place the voice, but it sounds hesitantly hopeful, almost surprised. There’s an edge of something to it that he isn’t quite sure of, but it might be something emotional. Maybe fear? Relief? He feels the need to reassure it, them, to quiet whatever worries may be behind it.

He squeezes the hands holding his, weakly.

There’s a shuffling, the sound of chairs being shoved away, and though the hands holding his don’t let go, he can feel the way their owners come closer. The light behind the darkness grows weaker, as if being blocked out, and it finally sinks in that he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. It takes a moment to remember how, to get his body to listen to his commands, but slowly the world around him comes into view. Slower still, it comes into focus, colors and lights bleeding back together into static shapes he can recognize.

Impulse and Tango are both leaning over him, staring down with expressions of equal hesitance and relief, as if afraid to fully commit to one or the other. There are silent tears gathering in Tango’s eyes, and deep, dark circles under Impulse’s; they both look like they’ve been to war and back, and Grian isn’t sure why, or what exactly happened, but it hurts to see them like this regardless of the reason. He can’t remember his own hesitance, either, any sense of rational logic far from his hazy mind as he wiggles his hands free of theirs to place them on both Hermits’ cheeks. He’s driven by feeling, without questioning if he should. It only makes Tango’s tears start to escape down his cheeks, while Impulse looks like he’s seconds away from tears of his own.

Opening his mouth and trying to speak only grants him with a wheezy noise, uncertain of exactly how his voice is supposed to work, but Impulse immediately starts shaking his head and leaning closer. “Hey, hey, don’t try to talk. You’ve been through a lot.” He says, gently brushing his fingers through Grian’s hair in a comforting way that would’ve made him melt if he wasn’t already relaxed into the mattress.

“Yeah, man,” Tango pipes up, his voice rough, and Grian can’t help but try to brush some of the tears away at the sound of it. The redstoner leans into his touch. “You were pretty, uh, we were-- we didn’t know if you were gonna wake up or not.”

Impulse gives him a look at his rushed words, his voice going weak and whispered at the end, and it makes Grian’s heart hurt to see the worry. To realize just how bad it was, to see what they went through; and there’s something nagging at him, like he’s missing something, and he still doesn’t know how he got here. They’re in such rough shape from worrying about him, and he doesn’t like it, though the growing relief in their eyes is a blessing.

But… but why, why do they… it starts to sink in that they shouldn’t be so worried. They have no reason to have waited here with him, to look this torn up for him, to care this much-- all at once, the memory of the ceiling crashing down onto him, the instant of being slammed to the ground with the searing pain of a stray beam where it shouldn’t be, comes back like a flood; and with it, the reason he was there at all. He winces at the intensity of it, flinching and letting go of their faces with the mounting fear that he’s pushed a boundary. It makes concern take over their expressions as quickly as the memories came rushing back, both of them taking his hands again, and he can’t understand _why._

He’s not one of them. They shouldn’t _care,_ they don’t _know,_ they _can’t,_ he promised himself he wouldn’t ever tell them--

“Grian? What’s wrong?” Impulse asks, his eyes darting all over the builder’s body as if searching for what could have possibly made him flinch, but there’s nothing to be found. Grian is almost glad for the excuse of his voice not working yet; he doesn’t know what to say, and it’s better that he can’t trip over his words right now with them so close and looking at him like he matters anyway. He doesn’t want them to know. They don’t deserve to worry.

But they already have, and it’s all his fault. The guilt that floods in, looking again at their tired, emotionally broken states, is far worse than being there in that mansion for hours until it all went dark.

“Ngh, what--” Zedaph’s voice reaches his ear from much closer than the other two, thick with sleep, and it finally hits him that the warm embrace around him all this time was the sleeping blonde snuggled up to him. Guilt with flustered embarrassment is a strange combination, but it hits him anyway, his heart speeding up as Zedaph sits up and into his sight. He’s rubbing his eyes, trying to adjust to what’s happening, until he freezes all at once as if someone had poured cold water onto him. His tired eyes snap straight to meet Grian’s, going wide. “Grian?!”

They’re all looking at him, all tired and worried and looking so ragged just because of him. What did they go through, because of him? How much trouble has he caused them? He has to look away, turning his head to the side. “I’m-- sorry.” He manages to croak out, his voice making it clear what he’s sorry for, and he doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.

He’s caused them all so much trouble, all because of his own feelings; he knew it would, but now it has without them even knowing, and the guilt is overwhelming. It weighs on him heavier than the roof had, and he’d rather be back there than see what they’ve gone through because of him.

It’s when he feels drops of water on his bandaged chest that he glances back, confused, only to see Zedaph with tears pouring down his cheeks and an expression of pure regretful pain. It sends a feeling of panic through him, not knowing what he did now or how he caused _that_ expression but he needs it to be gone, he needs Zedaph to be okay. “N--no,” Comes his pitful, weak voice, unable to try and comfort the other. Hesitantly, he reaches out, afraid to try and take hold of the crying blonde’s shoulders or pull him into a hug like he wants so badly to do.

When Grian reaches out for him, though, he lunges forward, catching the builder in a tight hug and burying his tearful face into his shoulder. “Grian, you’ve got it all wrong. _We’re_ sorry.” He wails between sobs, his body shaking as he cries, and Grian can only wrap his arms around him in some sort of attempt to comfort him. The embrace stirs warm, protective feelings in his chest, and he tries his best to ignore them; but it only brings his mind to the question of what in the _world_ Zedaph is talking about.

Unless… unless they think he left because of them? Do they think it’s their fault he was hurt?

His confusion must show on his face while he hugs the sobbing blonde, because Impulse and Tango share a glance before sitting on either side of the bed. “Grian, do you remember when Zedaph went missing? When he was hurt in the desert?” Impulse asks, while Tango starts rubbing circles into Zedaph’s back, adding on to Grian’s awkward attempt at soothing him.

His voice still weak, Grian just nods back.

“He wasn’t supposed to be back for days, we wouldn’t have questioned where he was until it was long too late. There was a reason we were able to know something was wrong in time.”

If they’re trying to make him less confused, they’re failing. Zedaph is slowly quieting down, between Grian and Tango gently comforting him and probably Impulse’s voice, and Grian can’t stop himself from petting his hair like Impulse did to him earlier. He shouldn’t let himself, but he does, though he’s almost instantly terrified Zedaph will pull away because of it. He doesn’t.

Where Impulse stops explaining, Tango takes over. “I went because he was hurt. He was hurt and I could _feel_ it. I guess… I guess because we care about each other so much? Or something? We can tell when something’s wrong with each other, when one of us is in danger; we don’t know why, but we can.”

“How--” Grian tries, his voice failing him. He’s so confused. Sure, he can understand that they’d feel each other’s pain, that they’d be so synced they’d be able to know; they’re just that perfect together, it makes sense.

But how does that apply to _him?_

“Grian,” Impulse leans forward, resting his forehead on Grian’s and staring him in the eye. The builder hopes he can’t see the heat he can feel bloom in his cheeks at the action, but at this point there’s probably no saving him from that. “I didn’t think we should say anything. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend or scare you, so we didn’t tell you. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for… tell me what?”

“We could feel your pain.” Tango adds, bluntly. The sentence crashes through his thoughts like an explosion, clearing anything else from his mind and leaving him staring blankly at them both. They couldn’t possibly be implying what he so badly _wishes_ they’re implying, and he can’t risk jumping to conclusions, so he says nothing back. It makes his heart leap all the same, and he has to look away from Tango’s soft smile to push it down. “And then it kinda made sense.”

“I, I..” He doesn’t know what to do or say, a conflicted feeling holding him down like chains. It sounds so much like they’re implying that they like him, too, but he can’t let himself believe that. He’s probably wrong, taking it the wrong way, they must be talking about something else and he’s still just so shaken up from the injury he can’t figure that out.

A moment passes in silence, in which Zedaph has gone silent and Grian can see the other two exchanging another glance. He looks away again, squeezing his eyes shut in fear. Have they figured it out? Are they going to back away, leave him on his own, want nothing to do with him because of his feelings? The thought hurts, but if they did, at least they wouldn’t be worrying and suffering because of him. It would be better that way, wouldn’t it?

“Grian.” Zedaph _does_ pull away, and Grian tries so hard to ignore the pang of sadness when he does, tries so hard to push it away and say nothing. It’s even more difficult when the blonde takes hold of his face, a thumb on Grian’s chin as he gently pulls at the builder to face him. He’s so afraid of the reaction the other might have, the expression on his face, if he’s just figured it all out; but the touch is so soft, his heart fluttering in his pained chest, that Grian can’t resist.

He turns, letting Zedaph’s touch guide him until their gazes meet again, and he isn’t expecting what he sees. There’s still tear tracks down the blonde’s cheeks, but he looks okay, like he’s feeling better, and there’s a soft warmth in his eyes that makes everything in Grian’s emotions feel like melted jelly. He _knows_ he’s blushing, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the others can hear the hammering of his heart with how loud it is, and he’s almost inclined to make an excuse or try to turn the attention away from whatever is happening here and why is Zedaph leaning closer-- _oh._

Maybe, maybe they _do_ know after all.

Zedaph’s touch is so light and gentle, the press of his lips as delicate as the hand that traces over Grian’s cheek, and Grian can feel all of the fear and tension he was holding only a moment ago bleed away as he melts into it. Pressing just the littlest bit more firmly into the kiss, afraid to push any further but _needing_ to respond, to return it, rewards him with the feeling of Zedaph’s mouth curling into a smile against his own. It makes everything else feel okay; that if the other is kissing him, and smiling about it, then this must be fine.

He pulls away after only a moment, leaving Grian dazed and without words to speak even if he could, and he can hear faint giggles bubbling up from within Zedaph. Blinking back to reality and focusing on what’s around him again, he’s met with an image he knows he will treasure for the rest of his life; Zedaph, sitting over him and giggling at his dazed expression, his smile wide enough to make it clear the tears are long forgotten. Tango, chuckling quietly to himself while grinning that winning, charming smile of his at them both. And Impulse; his smile soft, his eyes warm, no laughter to be found as he looks around at the rest of them, _Grian included,_ with an expression of pure love.

It makes everything he thought mattered, everything he thought was keeping him away, every one of his reasons for staying away and keeping them in the dark, fall away completely. The tiniest, little shred of worry stays behind; but that, too, vanishes when he reaches out for the other two and they each take his hand without hesitation.

Tango even winks at him, his expression going mischievous, before pressing a soft kiss to his hand. The flirty glint in his red eyes, shining ever so faintly over Grian’s own hand, immediately sends shivers down his spine. He barely even notices as Impulse stands and steps closer because of it, but then he turns at the presence, meeting the unreadable gaze suddenly leaning toward him. It makes his heart go haywire, seemingly trying to escape his chest completely as the third of the three leans into his space with intent, and Grian can feel his eyes fluttering closed in response; only for Impulse to press a single, tiny kiss to his nose before retreating.

Somehow, that flusters Grian the most of all; and he has to hide his face in Zedaph’s shoulder, feeling just how warm his face is against the other’s skin. He has a sneaking suspicion Impulse and Tango already have plans to fluster him any chance they get, and he momentarily questions what exactly he’s gotten himself into, but he’s more than ready to find out.

He doesn’t know where it started.

But now, he doesn’t think that matters. They’re four pieces of a puzzle, and he fits right in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

> i couldnt fit it in but bonus: they took him to Cub for medical help so the room smells like cake scented floor cleaner, Grian was just too busy being gay to notice


End file.
